| The duchess had manner, for dignity lurks
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| In the shadows of Debret
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| But fate threw a spanner smack into the works
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| Tarnishing her coronet
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| Three large sons were born to her
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| But one sad morn to her
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| There came a premonition of regret
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| Said the duchess «Well—
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| Something doesn’t gel.»
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| Said the duchess. |
| «Well!
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| Hell!»
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| Imagine the duchess’s feelings
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| On having hatched out her brood
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| To find her first son was weak, though well-mannered, Her second rather stupid
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| And the third plain rude
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| Her eldest son, when in trouble, went white
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| Her second son looked blue and hung his head
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| But imagine the duchess’s feelings
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| When her youngest son went red!
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| She sent them to Etton, traditional youth
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| Was theirs whatever else they’ve got
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| But nothing could sweeten the bitterest truth
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| That baby wasn’t quite so hot
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| High life gave no joy to him
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| The hoi polloi to him
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| Provided something that his peers did not
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| Said her grace aghast
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| «Is it going to last?»
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| Said her grace aghast
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| «Blast!»
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| Imagine the Duchess’s feelings—
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| You could have pierced her with swords—
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| When she discovered her youngest, liked Lenin
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| And sold the Daily Worker near the House of Lords
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| Her eldest son went to Boodle’s and White’s
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| Her second joined the blues his father led
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| But imagine the Duchess’s feelings
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| When her youngest son went Red
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| Imagine the duchess’s feelings
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| Her overwhelming despair
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| To find her third son hobnobbed with the butler
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| And sang The Internationale in Belgrave square
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| Her first son’s debts bled the family white
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| Her second son blu’d everything and fled—
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| But imagine the Duchess’s feelings
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| When the apple of the eye went Red
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| Poor mammy
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| Her youngest son went red |